So, I'm such a hypocrite. I say, "Summer = more updates" but then I don't update for over a week. I knew I had some crunch time, though, so while I was volunteering for registration for a place, I started writing this chapter on paper. I know, I'm such a horrible volunteer, but they even told me to bring a book or something to do, so I'm just following orders. ;)

Anyway, I've written 13 pages before I am finally typing this out. Which roughly translates to 5-6 pages typed, right? So, even if I don't completely finish my chapter, I have enough to update part of it with sufficient content. Yay!

Disclaimer: I do not own Maximum Ride. All rights go to James Patterson.

I think I'm going crazy.

….

….

Hey! You, in the back – that was not nice!

Anyway.

I keep seeing things – things that aren't really there.

No, I don't see dead people. I've already exhausted my zombie prank, so I don't think I can pull that one off.

It's the most random crap in the world. I mean, yeah, there is some sort of undercurrent connection, but it's really faint.

For example:

My father, Angel, and I sit at the kitchen table, eating our routine dinner of fish fry and whatever greens we managed to scavenge up and boil. The steady "scratch, scratch" of plastic sporks on paper plates fills the air. As for conversation, there is none. In the boring consistency we are living in together, what is new to talk about?

Well, besides my nightly visits to Max.

But, it's not like I'm going to bring that up.

I take another bite of fish fry, and it feels like heaven is sliding down my esophagus and into my stomach.

So salty, and so, so delicious.

My arteries may attest, but bird kid logic ranks full stomach over future health concerns.

Long term goals never really exist when you don't know if you'll make it through tomorrow.

More fish fry is consumed.

More scrapes sound out as sporks meet plates.

It's in the middle of this normalcy that I see it.

It's a seven inch spider, crawling across the middle of the table. Black, with a red stripe down the back.

Dangerous? I don't know.

Do you think I've studied arachnology in my spare time?

That is a rhetorical question.

Do I like spiders? Not particularly.

Does Angel like spiders.

Ha.

Ha ha.

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

Heck to the NO. I swear, if I didn't know for a fact that Angel didn't have wings, I would swear she was a mutant. She practically flies ten feet into the air upon the sight of any type of bug.

I'm surprised she hasn't seen this humongous spider crawling.

Guess it's good, for her.

Does my father like spiders?

…Does this even matter?

Another rhetorical question, for you slow ones in the back.

The spider is going to be terminated.

Get me my black leather jacket, a lot of guns, and fancy gadgetry.

Excuse me while I laugh at my own joke.

I've always wanted a leather jacket – it's one of those things I feel I could beast up. I just don't have the money -

Woah. Bunny Trail. Back to the point.

This spider is going to be pwned.

I quickly reach down and yank off my tennis shoe.

I really hope the shoe doesn't smell too bad.

I push the chair back and swiftly stand up, eyes focused on the target.

"Fang?" my father asks, a confused look in his eyes.

Okay, he either a.) Likes spiders and doesn't understand my primal urge to kill it or b.) Hasn't seen the completely HUGE seven-inch spider clogging the table.

Since either way I don't care, I ignore my father entirely.

Oh, no.

OH, no.

That spider is heading toward my heavenly fish fry.

Hell no.

At this moment, I whip down the shoe, my arm following a perfect, steady arc to the table.

Let's recap this in slow-mo.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-SPLAT!

Spider guts go flying; the bottom of my shoe is coated with them. The edge of the fish pan is hit by my shoe but remains unscarred by spider innards. The pan is knocked askew, though, and some fish flies out.

And smacks me dead on in the face.

Quite hard, actually.

And I thought fly fishing wouldn't be dangerous.

Get it? Because I can fly, and the fish was flying at me, and fly fishing is actually a sport?

…Okay, never mind. Ignore me – I just got beaten up by a dead fish. I'm a bit flabbergasted.

The shoe hitting the table made a huge boom!, and even now it resonates in the stillness.

I look up from the table and gore-covered shoe to see the shocked and bamboozled faces of Angel and my father.

There's a moment of silent reflection.

"Spider's dead," I say bluntly, and then I sit down at the table and resume eating fish fry.

"There was a SPIDER?" Angel shrieks, and in the blink of an eye, she is half-way across the room.

Oh, jeez.

"Not anymore. Sit," I say, beckoning her over with a wave of my hand.

I've taken a few bites of fish fry before I feel my father's gaze on my head, a slight tingle pricking my temple. I raise my gaze to meet his, nothing showing on my face.

Minus the fish stains.

"What?" I ask through a mouthful of fish, genuinely confused, but it comes off sounding like, "What's up?"

"Fang," my father says slowly, a searching look in his eyes.

"That's my name," I say just as slowly, not sure where this is going. "Don't wear it out."

"Fang," my father starts again. "There was no spider."

I snort.

"You probably didn't see it before I decimated it," I say, smirking.

My father looks troubled. "No, Fang. There was no spider. At all. Not then, not now."

"What do you mean?" I ask, concerned for my father's mental health. "Its guts are still all over the table –"

I cut myself off.

On the table is a knocked-over fish pan, three plates, and a bowl of boiled grass.

No dead spider – or spider guts.

I look at the bottom of my shoe, searching for evidence.

Nothing.

All evidence of spider has just disappeared – poof, into thin air.

"I…" I try to say something, anything, to defend myself.

But there's nothing to say.

I saw a spider.

I killed a spider.

But I have no proof of my spider murder.

Although this is a best-case scenario for a serial killer, this is not looking so good for Fang.

The imaginary spider killer.

I attacked something that didn't exist.

What's going on?

How many other things have I seen or reacted to that didn't exist?

"I'm going for a fly," I say, shoving the panic deep inside so no one can see it.

Including me.

But if you look close enough, you can probably tell the how tense my stride is and notice how quickly I escape as worry seeps through the cracks in my emotional barrier.

I'm not crazy.

…am I?

It has only escalated from that. I've never seen anything pleasant – that seems to be the only connecting link between my hallucinations. Always, the images are dark, frightening, heck even lugubrious at times.

I finally comprehended that should stop reacting to the images I see. I mean, I know they aren't real.

Sometimes it is difficult, though. Like, when I am trying to sleep and I see (and feel) hundreds of snakes slithering and climbing up all my limbs.

You can bet I don't sleep too soundly.

Or at all.

The worst episode yet was yesterday.

It was so freaking terrifying.

I won't give you specifics to what I'm mentally calling "The Incident," but I'll tell you it involved the Nyan cat, the song "Somewhere Over the Rainbow," and Fang in his undies.

*shudders*

That's a psychological thriller.

For everyone who wants to tell me this is just some large-ass nightmare, I'll respond that my whole life has been a large-ass nightmare. So, unless you are telling me that I've been in a coma this whole time, this crap is definitely real.

Well, not what I've been seeing. Just the fact that I am awake and seeing stuff.

Yeah.

Seeing things is only half of it.

I am constantly getting angry.

Before you shout hormones, I'll tell you that I keep getting fist-inducing furious over nothing.

At.

All.

No, seriously.

Don't give me that face, person in the back! I will literally kick you out of this… narration… thing…

Oh, shoot.

I am so sorry.

See what I mean?

Here, let's flashback before I hit one of you readers with a crowbar for sneezing or something.

My father, Angel and I sit at the kitchen table, eating out routine dinner of fish fry and whatever greens we manage to scavenge up and boil –

Woah. Déjà vu

Why do all my flashbacks take place at the dinner table?

Grumble grumble grumble

*looks at stomach*

Ugh! Stupid stomach! Stupid hunger! Leave me the hell alone!

…

…..

…

I'm just going to hit myself with the crowbar now. Be right back.

We are at the table. Eating fish fry. As always.

Dinner is normal. We eat in silence, only muttering "pass the grass" now and then.

Not that kind of grass.

Legitimate grass. That grows out of the ground in short, green spikes and has to be mowed a ton in the summer.

Anyway.

Angel finishes first. She picks up her plate, her spork precariously placed on the edge of it.

She is halfway to the trash pile (yeah, we are cool like that) when it happens.

The spork falls off the plate and hits the dirt floor.

Clink!

It rebounds slightly before coming to a rest on the dirt floor.

"Oops!" Angel says, bending down to pick it up.

My eyes are locked on Angel.

When she stands up, she looks at me and gives a shy grin – a grin I am used to seeing and melting on the inside from.

But.

Suddenly, the grin isn't so shy and innocent.

It's conniving.

And suspicious.

And devious.

She no longer has a spork in her hand, either.

It's a knife.

A long, metal, sharp knife.

"Fang," she mocks, her grin growing wicked.

The traitor – she's going to kill me.

After all I've done – she's switched sides.

I abruptly stand up and grab my own spork… well, it's a knife, now, too.

"I didn't mean to drop the spork," she coos in a sinister manner. "It was an accident."

"Lying brat!" I exclaim, my eyes narrowing dangerously. "You've been planning this!"

My wildfire anger surfaces beneath the dead calm mask I set onto my face.

"Planning what?" Angel tries to say innocently, twirling her hair around her finger. Her face gives her away, though – devious, with a wicked grin.

"You're trying to kill me!" I yell, furious. "After all I've done for you!"

"Fang –" my father tries to interrupt, standing up.

"Don't!" I shout at him.

"Fang," Angel says, a worried look crossing her face suddenly. She begins to back away, as if scared.

I almost think that I was wrong, but I see that knife in her hand. I saw the devious look on her face.

She is acting.

"Don't you try to act innocent! I see who you really are now, you ungrateful demon!" I scream maliciously.

Angel's eyes water with tears, her face fully frightened.

"Fang, stop this – " my father tries to intervene, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I roughly shove it off and push him away, hearing him fall into the chairs heavily.

I focus back on Angel.

"I got wings for you!" I shout, whipping out my large black wings.

"Enough, Fang –" my father yells from the chairs.

"I was beaten up for seven years for you!" I exclaim, tension building in my arms are fury runs rapidly.

Tears run down Angel's face. "I'm s-sorry –" she hiccups out.

"Liar!" I yell, raising my arm to swing –

A body slams into mine, shoving me sideways. My head connects with the wall roughly, causing me to see stars as I fall to the floor, dazed.

"Fang, STOP THIS. ENOUGH!" my father roars at me, furious. "God damn it, Fang, snap the hell out of it! Look at what you were doing!'

I look up under my bangs to the corner.

Angel is curled up in the corner, a dirty spork lying a few feet away. Heavy sobs emanate from her body as fat tears race down her face.

Oh, God.

Oh, GOD.

I screamed at Angel. For dropping a spork.

I almost hit her for dropping a spork.

I wanted to.

OH, GOD.

I put a hand over my mouth and bite the inside skin, a habit I used to do when I was scared. Bite my hand to focus on the pain instead of whatever I was feeling.

One of the reasons my parents kept calling me "Fang."

Shame. Bucket loads of it swarm my body, filling every pore, every cell.

My mother's face grins wickedly in my head.

"My boy, just like me."

"Just like me."

I'm so furious and nervous and frightened… of myself.

I'm losing it. I'm losing. I'm becoming her.

I bite my hand harder, but it doesn't distract from the guilt. I taste the first signs of blood as my teeth break skin.

"At first I thought you were just tense from lack of action or something. I thought that if I just let it leave your system, you'd settle down eventually. But now, NOW I know that isn't it," my father scolds, glaring holes through me.

For the first time, I shrink at the sight of a glare.

I welcome it. I want the world to fall on me and crush my body.

I deserve it. This pain.

I'd experience the agony of getting wings again. I'd have my mother torture me for seven more years to make up for what I did in two minutes.

What I almost did.

I start shaking uncontrollably, curled in a tight ball, still biting my hand. I feel the wetness fall down my face before I realize that I am crying.

"I'm so sorry, Ange. God, I'm so sorry –" I try to cry out, to apologize to Angel. My Angel.

My father interrupts.

"I suggest you leave for a while. Fly, clear your head. Before something worse happens," my father lectures, still glaring at me.

I stand up, shaking. I look at Angel, trying to project to her how sorry I am.

"GO!" my father shouts. "Don't return until you settle this problem, Nicholas!"

I run past him and leap into the sky in three seconds, pouring on the speed.

So here I am, wandering around my hometown, trying to sort my chaotic thoughts and calm down. I have to think rationally to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

I can't keep being this. This craziness.

I'm dangerous.

I'm my mother.

I stroll down a city sidewalk, my mind clouded.

This isn't natural. Something is tampering with my mind. Something that has just appeared since my house burned down. Something that's happened after I settled down in the corn field.

Bug bite? Nah.

Maybe my mother planted something in my head. Maybe it's been deactivated until she had the opportune moment. Maybe she's controlling my mind.

…maybe.

Some sort of drug? Surely I'd have noticed. For this kind of reaction, I'd have to feel addicted.

…wouldn't I?

The sidewalk turns ninety degrees around the corner of a building. I follow its concrete path, rotating around the wall.

And stop.

Oh, shit.

This evil cliffhanger and chapter are dedicated to Had Enough by Breaking Benjamin.

I have some more, but it's late, and I'm tired, and I'll update again soon, hopefully.

Woah. 11 pages. That's crazy.

I wrote 5 pages on killing a spider. That's kind of funny.

Sorry to leave it here. Tell me your thoughts, your speculations.

R&R?